


Playing the Victim

by SomethingSalome



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:02:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2429789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingSalome/pseuds/SomethingSalome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's possible that Will is struggling with his need for control in his everyday life. But when Dr. Lecter suggests a slightly unorthodox way to examine the problem, what will they discover?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing the Victim

“I still see him in my dreams,” Will intoned. His eyes were fixed ahead and downward, hands on either arm rest. “And sometimes when I’m awake.” He could see the man across from him in his peripheral. Eye contact was difficult, especially with a man who had such a strong stare.

“Garret Jacob Hobbs?” Hannibal’s lightly accented voice was calm, lilting. Anchoring Will to his present reality. He was in Hannibal’s office. For the moment, he knew who he was. Not Hobbs, Graham. Will Graham. 

“Yes,” he answered. The hiss of the dental fricative extended a fraction of a second past the end of the word. Just enough for him to decide against elaborating. Hannibal waited, then continued.

“Taking a life must have been very difficult for you.” Will could feel the ugliness of the snide expression that was tugging at his features, but he kept it to a twitch. 

“You could say that, yes,” was all he said. Will looked across the room at last, meeting his friend, colleague, therapist, whatever in the eye. The man’s lips pursed and parted. He was perfectly kept, coiffed, and dressed. His face gave away nothing. The silence had only just had time to grow stale when Hannibal spoke. 

“When you assist Agent Crawford,” he said. “At a crime scene, you often find yourself in the role of the aggressor, yes?” Will’s lips pulled back in a tight smile. 

“That is the best way to catch a killer, isn’t it?” he asked. “Thinking like him?” Hannibal’s eyes slipped from Will’s gaze as he nodded off to one side. 

“Perhaps that is correct,” he said. “But what is the best way to help Will Graham?” Will snorted.

“Helping me won’t save lives-“

“It might just save your own.” Will looked up sharply. He was constantly surprised by the man’s concern, when it showed itself. The rest of his activities read of such careful curiosity. “Tell me,” Hannibal continued. “What do you think is best for your own sanity?” A number of words danced on the tip of his tongue. Rest. Escape. Hospitalization. 

“I don’t know,” he said finally. Hannibal inhaled deeply and got to his feet. 

“I would like to try an exercise,” he said. Will started to protest but was silenced with a raised finger. “I only ask that you use the same skills you use in the field. Here you will use them differently.” 

“Differently,” Will said. 

“Yes.” Hannibal approached Will’s chair. He was standing closer than he ever had before, and this made Will nervous. “When you fabricate the circumstances of a crime for Agent Crawford, where do you see yourself?” Will closed his eyes. When at last he opened them, Hannibal had not moved. 

“Jack needs me because I can think like them,” he said.

“Whose thoughts are you thinking, Will?” He stared into the doctor’s eyes for a long moment. Will blinked first.

“The killers,” he said. 

“It seems that this is causing you some distress,” he said. “Putting yourself in the minds of men who have done terrible things.” At this, Will almost laughed.

“You think so?” Hannibal ignored his scoff and continued. 

“Perhaps you should try looking at a crime from another point of view,” he said. He turned on his heel. By the time Will had found his voice, Hannibal was already standing at his desk. 

“You mean the victim?” The standing man turned back to face him.

“There is a sense of responsibility that comes with seeing an event through the perpetrator’s eyes,” he said. “This exercise may, for a time, absolve you of that.” 

“I don’t need to be absolved, I’m not the one who killed those people.” There was venom in his voice. He could feel it, but he couldn’t stop it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. 

“You are the one who killed Garret Jacob Hobbs.” Will looked at him sharply, but there was nothing of accusation on his face. It was as calm and placid as ever. “You have not absolved yourself of that crime.” 

“I killed him,” he breathed. “To save Abigail’s life.” Hannibal gave a single nod.

“Now do this to save yourself,” he said. Will felt the protests rising in his throat, but he swallowed them back. Since he pulled the trigger that day he had felt a sense of guilt tugging at him stronger with each new crime scene. The man was in his head, and he hated him for it, but it was very possible that he was right about this. 

“Alright,” he said. 

“Good,” Hannibal said, his voice brisk and certain. “I think it best that we start with an imagined crime. Then we can adjust the circumstances to suit our needs.” Will nodded. He could feel his hands tightening on the arm rests. “Perhaps something simple. A man stabbed to death in his home.” Will sighed out a laugh.

“That’s simple?” 

“More simple than a woman impaled on the antlers of a stag,” he said. Will shrugged.

“Alright,” he said. “A man stabbed to death in his home.” Will stared ahead of him, waiting, but Hannibal gave him nothing more to go on. He tried to imagine a man coming into someone’s home with a knife. But what knife? For what purpose? Whose home? Will shook his head. “I tend to work better with some kind of visual.” Hannibal walked behind his desk and opened a drawer.

“Very well,” he said, drawing out a letter opener. “This is the murder weapon.” Will got to his feet and approached the imposing piece of furniture. The letter opener was metal, old fashioned. Must have been an antique. Even on close examination, it almost could have been a knife. He shook his head. 

“I need to see the body,” he said. “I need to know what the killer saw when he-“

“Ah,” Hannibal cut him off, setting the blade down on the table in front of him. “You do not need to know what the killer saw. You need to know how the victim saw the killer. The victim would not see the body.” Will winced. He had been trying to do as he had always done, to get in the head of the perpetrator. Perhaps this would be more difficult than he thought. “Do you know what it is to feel helpless?” 

“How is helplessness better than responsibility?” The ghost of a smile appeared on Hannibal’s face.

“Helplessness, in this case, is analogue to innocence,” he said. “You have done nothing wrong, in fact, wrong has been done to you. What I would like for you to do is to allow yourself to experience that helplessness in a controlled setting.” 

“So the killer-“ Will began, but was cut of with a light click of the other man’s tongue. He stopped, anger warming his cheeks for the barest of instants before he settled himself. Hannibal was trying to help, not humiliate, but the gesture reminded Will of how he had once tried to click train his dogs. “The victim is asleep in his bed when the stranger enters his home. He does not wake up until he feels the man’s hand over his mouth and a knife at his throat.” The narrative felt hollow, false, but Hannibal was staring at him, engaged and unblinking, so he continued. “Under the threat of violence, he allows his hands to be tied in front of him, and then…” Will shrugged. 

“What do you feel?” Hannibal was looking at him. The thought had almost been that the man was looking through him, but Will dismissed that quickly. Hannibal was intensely perceptive, like he was, but he was hardly an open book.

“I don’t feel anything,” he snapped. 

“Can you tell me why the killer bound his victim?” Will tossed his head, ending with his gaze on the letter opener again. 

“He wanted to feel that control over him,” he said. “This was a crime of power.” Hannibal stepped closer to Will. Too close. Close enough for Will to smell his faint, but probably expensive, cologne. His pulse was maybe a few beats faster than he liked.

“How would the victim know what the killer wants?” he asked. Will opened his mouth to answer, but Hannibal continued. “The problem here is not the lack of imagery. The problem is that you cannot stop seeing yourself in the position of guilt.” A slight pause. “Or is it the position of power?” A quiet anger wove once again through Will’s skin, warming him. 

“I don’t want that kind of power,” he said. 

“Then it should be no problem for you to give it up,” Hannibal replied with a wave of his hand. “Sit down.” It was a command, but without the tone of one. Hannibal walked to his chair and sat, not looking at will, but instead taking up his notebook. Will walked to the other chair and took a seat. His pulse had not slowed. “Why don’t we make a list of the physical sensations of the victim?” Will nodded, but said nothing. Hannibal pulled a pen from the side table and prepared to write. “Tell me, as the man, in his bed, what do you see?” 

“The inside of my eyelids,” he sighed. Hannibal nodded and made a note. 

“When you open your eyes, what do you see?” Will shifted in his chair. “Try not to think, just allow yourself to experience.”

“His face.” 

“What do you feel?”

“His hand, over my mouth.” 

“And?” 

“Metal. On my neck.” 

“Does he press hard?” 

“Yes.”

“Does it break the skin?” 

“No.” Will was settling into the rhythm of the questioning. This strange, criminal word association game that they were playing. The answers came easier with each passing question.

“What do you hear?” Hannibal continued. 

“His voice.”

“Saying what?” 

“Hands together, in front of you.”

“Anything else?” 

“Do it or I’ll kill you.” Even as they left his mouth the words felt clunky, wrong. He had not been in this room. This circumstance was not real to him, and it never would be.

“Then?” 

“The rope.” 

“What does it feel like?” 

“Like rope.” Hannibal looked up. He stopped taking notes and met Will’s eyes.

“Like rope,” he repeated. “Nothing more?” Will only shrugged. “Is it smooth or rough? Hard or soft? Loose or tight?” 

“Tight,” he answered, but nothing more came. 

“You experienced none of what you said,” Hannibal sighed. “How can you expect to experience a man’s emotions if you cannot experience his physical self?” 

“There is no man,” Will said, exasperation leaking into his voice. “There was no crime. None of this is real.” Hannibal got to his feet. He approached Will’s chair, standing, again, far too close. Will stared up at him, uncertain of how to react.

“Then we will make it real,” he said. For the barest moment, there was a surge of adrenaline under the surface of Will’s skin, the beginnings of panic, but it barely had time to manifest before the man had turned away from him and toward his desk, tugging at his necktie. “How did it feel to you, when I said that?” Will could feel his pulse close to the surface of his throat. His skin was alive with the fear he had just experienced. Though he knew he was safe in Hannibal’s office, it was one of the few places that he felt truly safe, in that moment he had felt…uncertain. 

“I’m not sure,” Will said. He hoped that the tremor in his voice was not as noticeable to Hannibal as it was to him. The doctor turned around, slipping his tie over his head. “What are you doing?” 

“Will, you cannot bring yourself to give up control,” he said, in lieu of an answer. “For this exercise to work, you are going to have to let go.” In two steps, he was in front of Will’s chair again, this time at a comfortable distance. His hand extended toward will, the tie was held in the other hand, carefully kept at his side, bent at the elbow. “Give me your hands.” 

“What?” Will asked. “Why?” 

“I am going to bind you at the wrists,” he replied evenly. “Just for a moment. So that you can experience relinquishing some of your control.” Will snorted and turned his head away, careful to keep his hands on the armrests. 

“Is this…” he began. “A common therapeutic technique?” 

“I did not think that our relationship was that of a patient and therapist,” he said. His hand did not move. Will looked back. The look in Hannibal’s eyes was even, calm. There was no expectation there, nothing to give the impression of aggression, or of untoward thoughts. As a matter of fact, nothing. Slowly, Will brought his wrists together in his lap, then lifted them and placed his clasped hands in Hannibal’s outstretched one. Before he had time to reconsider, the other man’s hands were deftly looping the silk around his proffered limbs. As the knots tightened, pressing flesh against flesh, Will couldn’t help but gasp, adrenaline prickling the underside of his skin and heat rising in his chest. The sensation, though unnerving, was not unpleasant. “How does this feel?”

“It feels…” Will tugged at his bonds. There was no movement. “Restrictive.” 

“Good,” Hannibal sighed. He tugged Will’s hands forward and his body was forced to follow, dragging him to the edge of his seat. “Tell me now, who has the power here?” Will’s fingers flared and his forearms tense.

“Obviously the person holding the rope,” he said. Hannibal nodded, but said nothing. Will turned his attention to the tie. It was blue and silver, patterned, probably expensive. Should have been slick, easy to slip out of. But no matter how Will strained, he remained as he was. Trapped. It was only his wrists but he felt it in his entire body. Anything could be done to him at any moment and, honestly, he was powerless to stop it. Hannibal reached for his face and he drew back, but the standing man was stronger, pulling Will’s wrists forward until his hand met Will’s cheek. 

“Tell me, Will,” Hannibal murmured. “Who has the power here?” 

“You do,” Will breathed. Even waking up from nightmares, even running, Will could not recall a moment, perhaps since he had shot Garret Jacob Hobbs, that his heart had been beating so fast and so hard. Hannibal offered a smile that made him ache, but with what he couldn’t say. The man seemed…pleased. Will had pleased him somehow. Why did that knowledge make his heart beat even faster?

“How does it feel?” he asked. With his nose this close to the other man’s wrist, Will could smell the remnants of some seasoning on his fingers, under the rich and masculine scent he wore. What was it? Sage? He took a shuddering breath. “Do you feel afraid?” Will nodded, feeling his stubbled cheek brush against the doctor’s fingers. “Will?” 

“Yes,” he murmured. 

“And what else?” Hannibal asked. Slowly, his hand began to move down Will’s face toward his neck. He felt a shudder of terror in his body, but he did not try to pull away. He knew that even if he tried, he would fail. There was nothing he could do, and so nothing he should do. Just as Hannibal’s strong fingers came to rest on Will’s throat, a word escaped his mouth like a gasp.

“Free,” he said. Hannibal stilled his hand, not removing contact with Will’s windpipe. As soon as the word had left his mouth Will had wished he could swallow it back, but his tongue was sticking dryly to his palette and the word could not be unspoken. He also knew it to be among the truest he had ever uttered.

“Do you care to elaborate?” The careful contact turned into a powerful caress and Will had to suppress a moan. Hannibal’s thumb hooked under his chin, lifting his face to the light. “Will.” 

“I feel…” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple brushing against Hannibal’s palm. It made the automatic gesture feel strained. Somehow the position he was in, completely under Hannibal’s thumb, made the words flow out of his mouth like water. “I feel at peace. I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.” 

“What weight is that?” Hannibal asked. Will tried not to gasp as he felt the man’s fingers twitch against his skin.

“The weight of fighting,” he said. “Of trying so hard to keep control. Just…letting myself lose it.” He could feel the heat of embarrassment rising in his cheeks, but still he managed to lift his eyes to the doctor’s. The other man’s gaze was both thoughtful and emotionless. All at once, the hand was off Will’s throat and he found himself sitting back in his chair. Hannibal’s fingers were briskly unbinding his wrists. There was a feeling in Will’s chest, almost physical, that took him a long moment to recognize. When he did, he discovered it to be disappointment. 

“I think that is enough for now,” Hannibal said. Will rubbed his wrists as he took them back. The subtle patterns in the silk had left their texture in his skin. 

“For now?” he said. Hannibal nodded, smoothing the tie over his hand. 

“Perhaps next week it might be beneficial to replicate the circumstances of our imagined crime,” he said. Will blinked.

“Here?” he asked. Hannibal shrugged, turning his collar up to re-place his tie. 

“Anywhere you feel comfortable,” he replied. “We can do it in my home if you like.” 

“Or mine.” Will shrugged his indifference, but his heart was in his throat. For the smallest moment he had allowed himself to imagine Hannibal entering his house, taking his power away from him. Why did that idea excite him? “It might be more…authentic.” Hannibal nodded, finishing off the knot and bringing down his collar. 

“Yours then,” he said. They settled on a date and time, and Will left the office. His hands were still trembling and his breathing was ragged. He had never before felt the way he had in that room. He had never felt so powerless. He should have been…horrified, disgusted, almost anything besides the way he was feeling now. But instead of those things, he felt alive with it. When he returned home, he touched the marks on his wrists until they faded. There was something in him that made him crave that loss of control, however fleeting. With a cringe, he wondered if Hannibal had seen that in him. But no, he was a doctor. He would never capitalize on the weakness of a…friend? Patient? Colleague? Whatever he was to Hannibal, a few nights from now he would be playing the role of his victim. Will wanted to shudder at this revelation, he did, but instead he caught himself with half a smile on his face as he drifted off to sleep.


End file.
